


Bitte

by buckybleeds



Series: Alphabet Soup [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Double Penetration, HYDRA Trash Party, He doesn't get one, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, everything i write is a dead dove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19218820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: Soldat has many functions, some more obvious than others.





	Bitte

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, translations for my extremely bad German in the end notes. (please feel free to offer corrections)  
> <> denotes spoken Russian but my Russian is so bad that I won't even rely on Google translate for it. 
> 
> I'm @buckybleeds on tumblr, twitter, and IG. Feel free to drop by and shout prompts at me from the windows of passing cars.

They didn't rent the soldier out. Hydra would never be that crass.

They temporarily lent him to different branches in exchange for materiel. It was a fine line.

They didn't let him keep much besides the geography - if he could retain the layout of an Algerian slum he could navigate it successfully in the future, all for the benefit of Hydra. So he didn't know why he'd been in Cape Town in 1984 but he did know three places where he'd cached grenades in its sewers.

So now it was later. He didn't try to look for the years, not that he could remember. That wasn't mission relevant. Doing things that weren't mission relevant was unpleasant, for reasons that he also couldn't remember.

But when he'd been in Cape Town he had seen posters for Olympic games that had been unavoidable whenever he was outside of the safehouse, so he knew that was1984 and this was after.

And he knew from the streets that he was in East Berlin.

He had not been given mission parameters yet, but that was not unusual. It was difficult to transport him in stasis but risky to give him too much time to consider operations. He became erratic, started to think he knew better than his handlers. Lost his humility, thought he was human.

So he didn't question why he was being driven through East Berlin some time after 1984 in the winter at 1600 local time. It wasn't mission relevant because he didn't have a mission yet.

He did question why it was taking so long.

He had been seated in the back of a small carrier van for two days before reaching the concrete and barbed-wire border. He had been taken out of cryo two days before that. Standard handling procedures dictated that the soldier should go no more than three days out of cryo without a wipe unless actively engaged in fieldwork that prevented maintenance. He became erratic, otherwise.

But he wasn't a brain, he was a fist. He didn't have to worry about procedures, he didn't have to worry about anything. He only had to complete his mission.

 

***

 

The irony of working in a massive, multi-national covert wetworks operation is that nobody bothered learning anybody else's language unless it was English. The Russians couldn't speak German, the Germans couldn't speak Russian, and the Americans didn't bother with any of it. Thick accents and universal contempt took the place of interdepartmental cooperation.

The Russian handlers had taken possession from the American handlers in order to transport him across Europe from the East. The Russian handlers had found the end of the East in a shabby building painted in institutional green with a sub-basement made of echoing concrete, and that is where they left the Soldier. 

He had exited the cramped van and seen his seat filled with boxes too light to be ammunition and too fragile to be explosives. Perhaps electronics. But it wasn't the Soldier's place to consider what was in boxes. 

He listened as the Russian handlers told him to behave, returned a salute, and watched them drive away. 

The Germans were smiling at him.

There were four of them, all young. None too fit. They would not be able to keep up with the soldier in the field; perhaps his mission would involve ranged weapons. A man who couldn't climb a tree frequently could climb a dozen dozen sets of stairs while dragging fifty pounds of rifle. The Soldier had noticed that many times in the past. He thought perhaps it had something to do with the boots of the man in question.

These handlers wore very shiny boots. And very clean uniforms that were poorly buttoned. And they smiled.

The oldest of the young handlers stepped forward. He swayed and said something in German.

The Soldier frowned. He was not supposed to speak to people. He usually understood them, but they were usually speaking English or Russian. He didn't have much German. Not enough to understand what this handler wanted.

That. That was an oversight that would probably become mission-relevant very soon.

The Soldier stared flatly at the handler and cocked his head to the side.

"Sprechen sie Deutsch?"

The Soldier maintained his stare.

"Ein bisschen Deutsche?"

He blinked slowly, like a cat.

"Keine Deutsche."

The handler sighed and raised his hands and said something to the others. 

"English?" called one of the sloppiest young men. The toe of his shiny boot was clouded with something the Soldier suddenly identified as vomit from the subtle smell hanging around the group.

The soldier raised his right hand and held it flat in the air, tipping it gently from side to side.

"Little English?"

The Soldier nodded, though that didn't seem right.

"Okay, Little English, come, we have your work." 

They trooped away from the underground loading dock, heading through a set of steel doors that led to a hallway tiled with beige and lit with unrelenting reflector bulbs. The Soldier didn't know more than a few words in German but enough of it sounded enough like English that he caught the words "die Partei" and "Hure."

He had been out of cryo long enough that he started to sweat.

 

***

 

There were no other handlers. Just these four young men who had vomited on their shoes and ripped open their coats and who didn't know the words to say to pass on his mission and the Soldier was very carefully not panicking. The Soldier was not allowed to panic, the soldier was dangerous to real people when he panicked.

"Zieh dich aus."

He didn't know what they were saying. He wasn't supposed to speak. He was getting angry at the people who would send him to a place like this; people who would leave him alone with strangers who couldn't talk to him, who wanted him to do things he couldn't understand. He had been out of cryo too long. He needed a mission, so he took a risk.

"Mission?"

"Das ist deine Mission."

The Soldier looked around. He was kneeling in a bank of showers, lost somewhere in the underground locker room of some East German ministry in front of four men who thought he was their whore. Fuck this mission. He didn't have much German but he'd picked up at least a few sweet nothings to hurl at those Nazi shitheads during the war.

"Fick dich, Arschloch."

That got a reaction out of them. Granted, the reaction was laughter but it was better than getting gawked at on his goddamned knees while some kraut waited for him to pop out of a goddamned birthday cake with icing on his tits. 

"Clothes, Soldat," the sloppy man stepped forward and tugged at the front of the Soldier's jacket. "No clothes, off!"

The Soldier bared his teeth and then his world cracked open.

He was used to getting zapped in the chair, he remembered it now - a cold halo of pain, but the sensation of a cattle prod to his nuts was a bit beyond his remembered experience.  

Fucking Christ, did that ever hurt.

In fact it hurt so much that he didn't even notice the needle until the electricity coursing through the lower half of him had stopped and he was panting raggedy into the tile where he'd fallen. 

When he did notice the needle it was already inside of him, pushed through the cloth of his pants with the plunger depressed. 

Maybe these krauts did know how to handle him after all. 

Whatever they'd put in him worked fast, loosening his limbs and making his muscles slack and soft while turning the white tiles of the shower room hazy and soft. Sounds were suddenly louder, lights brighter. He could count the cracks in the tile beneath him, feel the ridges of his fingertips as his thumb moved in lazy circles against his index finger. He could taste the air in the room, smell the alcohol in the blood of these handlers - his thoughts scattered at every new movement, every noise, as every sensation was doubled and redoubled.

He felt hands pulling at his clothing, his hair, setting off sparks of sensation that made his skin break out in gooseflesh. He growled, as much as he was able, and then hands were moving over his face, snapping something over his nose and mouth.

"-beißt nicht, ja?"

One of them was speaking to him, laughing, but he only caught snatches of words while the world sparkled.

Then the world burned and Bucky Soldat screamed, pain ripping into him like acid, the drug tearing away his ability to ignore the hurt.  


In the part of his head that wasn't being torn to little, wet pieces the Soldier watched what was happening to him.

The handlers would wait for his muscles to relax and his eyes to roll before they pressed the cattle prod against a new piece of flesh. They'd let him drift for a moment then they'd activate it, letting him scream and try to twist away until the skin they'd targeted was an angry red blister. Up and down, up and down, pain and lethargy, screaming and silence.  


Then it got ugly.

 

 

He was twisted and manipulated on the cold floor until one of the new handlers knelt between his legs. He pulled a pale, thin, hard cock out of the thick wool of his uniform trousers, spit on it, and stuffed it unceremoniously into Soldat. He moved just slow enough not to tear his own skin, savoring the whimpers that made it past the severe black mask as he seated himself as deeply inside the Soldier as he could reach.

The Soldier twitched weakly around the intrusion, his breath hitching as ripples of sensation spiraled out from every point of him and screaming out opposing information. The cool tile beneath his feet soothed like salt waves on the shore but the hot scream of penetration cored into him and made him want to vomit out his own teeth and bones and heart.

Hands slid under his waist. The handler inside of him knelt back and pulled the Soldier Bucky taut like a bow, shifting deeper before rocking in gentle strokes that tore and tormented and somehow felt achingly _good_ in the strange sparkling dark of this blinding white room. It felt like whispers in the night and smelled like rain and canvas and stabbed through the center of him with how much it hurt.  


There were more hands under his shoulders. Too many hands. The Soldier was heavy, laden with thick straps of muscle and bands of metal. He was difficult to move, he should be moving himself, he should be doing something to stop this, stop them, just stop but there were too many hands. They pulled him upright and draped the SoldierBuckySoldatDarling over the handler in front of him. They tossed a rope around a shower head and drew his arms up, out of the way, stretching him like a canvas for them. Hands grasped his hips, thick thumbs tugging his cheeks apart to open him up, putting the place where the other handler entered him on vulgar display.

He felt cool liquid trailing down his spine and pooling against his entrance, shivered as it coated the cock thrusting at him and shuddered as he felt it ease the way.  


" Hübsche Hure," came a whisper against his ear as he felt the hot, heavy weight of another erection lining up with the one already filling him, "lieber Junge," said the voice, and suddenly the man between the two handlers was all Bucky, the Soldier fled and the conditioning failed and as he was split on the thrust of a second cock and he found there was at least one more German word he remembered.

"Bitte," he begged, voice swallowed in the mask, "please, bitte, stop, god, stop, _stop_ -"

 

***

 

They didn't rent the Soldier out. Hydra would never be that crass.

Sometimes they let him be used in unstable situations in order to teach an upstart branch with delusions of grandeur a lesson. There was a fine line between the Soldier and a live hand grenade, when you came right down to it. 

The Russian handlers waited three hours before they returned to the underground garage in their little carrier van. Both handlers reeked of smoke from the cigars they'd been paid in exchange for an afternoon with Soldat. A bachelor party of sorts.

<<Idiots. All of us.>> The taller of the two Russians had been trained to handle Soldat before he'd been transferred to the Americans. He'd once watched Soldat bite the fingers off an incautious handler. He'd been pissing himself in the van with the thing for two days out of Cryo. This was a stupid mission.

 

<<At least we're living idiots,>> the shorter man said. <<For the moment.>>

They activated the tracker and followed it through bright, silent hallways until they heard the sound of water.

<<Mother of god,>> said the first handler as he looked into the shower room. The second handler had to agree.

A pipe had been wrenched out of the wall and spewed a stream of steaming water against the tile; that still had not been enough to wash away the gluts of blood that were splashed across every wall and even the ceiling. Severed limbs littered the floor. There was an absurdly bloodless patch of ground that was occupied by a single head, staring sightlessly at the door as the tongue lolled obscenely out of the ragged place where it had been ripped away from its body.  


Soldat was in the corner, painted red and clutching its hands in its hair and keening through some kind of mask that covered its face. When the Russian handlers entered the room Soldat tried to make itself smaller, tried to hide its eyes.

The taller handler approached it.

<<Soldat,>> he said. <<Your mission is complete, you must now come with us for maintenance.>>

Soldat whined louder, tried to make itself smaller.  


<<Come, you must submit to maintenance.>>

"Please, please, please, _I'm sorry, please_ , please" he could hear Soldat saying as he got closer. He sighed and rubbed his fingers over his eyes. He knew they'd left it too long. He had one chance to fix this or Soldat would kill him and everyone else that came for it until it bled enough to pass out.

<<Forgiveness,>> the handler said, and Soldat collapsed to the ground.

<<Bleeding Christ,>> the second man said. <<What a disaster. I'm ashamed that they called themselves Hydra.>>

<<Shut up and help me carry it. We've got two hours to get Soldat to a chair before he turns us inside out as well.>>

**Author's Note:**

> "Sprechen sie Deutsch?" - Do you speak German?  
> "Ein bisschen Deutsche?" - A little German?  
> "Keine Deutsche." - No German.  
> "die Partei" - the party  
> "Hure" - whore  
> "Zieh dich aus." - Undress.  
> "Das ist deine Mission." - This is your mission.  
> "Fick dich, Arschloch." - Fuck you, asshole.  
> "-beißt nicht, ja?" - "- don't bite, yeah?"  
> "Hübsche Hure,"- Pretty whore  
> "Lieber Junge" - Lovely boy  
> "Bitte" - Please


End file.
